Until the hate is all there is.
Some nights, I don’t sleep much.
And then there is Marco. Dear brother. Still my agent, but now an agent to five other players here in Portugal. Always moving forward, always driven to succeed. The more famous I get, the more famous he gets. But at the same time, the more demands he gets. The more he has to look at me and think of the things he has to do for me. An agent’s job is to always get the best for their client, and to want the best.
Shit gets complicated when the agent starts to resent you.
Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it was never a good idea to have family working for you. I always thought I could trust Marco, but now I’m wondering if I can. Because he’s gotten closer to his father than ever and I would hate to think they’re sabotaging me from the inside.
That’s fucking paranoia. I know. I know I shouldn’t even think it.
But I do.
“Come on, let’s get shit-faced,” Benedito says to me, grabbing my arms and pulling me up from the turf. The roar from the crowd in here is deafening, and I glance up at the sea of green and white, taking it all in, pushing all my fears aside.
“As your captain, I have to advise you that getting shit-faced isn’t a great solution,” I tell him with a grin.
“We have a week before our next match, we will be fine,” he assures me. “At least let me buy you a drink.”
“Get in line,” Fito says, slapping me on the back and jumping up and down. “We’re all buying Luciano a beer.”
“Fine, Fine,” I tell them. “Just point me in the right direction.”
We walk off the pitch and into the dressing room, giving short soundbites to the media as we go, smiling triumphantly. Once inside the room, I give the team a congratulatory pep talk, telling them what went right, what went wrong, hopefully instilling them with confidence to win the next time.
Then, after a few more interviews, the boys and I head out on the town.
First stop is a low-key bar around the corner from the stadium, where the owner basically kicks everyone out so that we can come in undisturbed. Fans have been great to us lately, but that’s only because we’re winning, and you never know if someone is harboring resentment for last year.
Then, when I’ve had a few beers in me, they decide to bring the party down to the river, to Lux Frágil, which is owned by John Malkovich. It’s a ridiculously exclusive four-story club, which gives us a lot of privacy when we’re there, even if it’s a bit pretentious at times and the music melts my ears. I’m only almost thirty, and yet I feel like an old man sometimes.
“I know this isn’t your scene,” Benedito yells in my ear, as his wife Teresa walks off to get us some champagne. “So I’m impressed that you’re here.”
“Well, you keep twisting my arm,” I tell him loudly, wincing at the lights shooting across the dark room, the crowd dancing to a DJ at the back.
Even though we have our own VIP area, so far the crowd seems to be mostly young tourists or socialite locals who pretend they’re too cool for footballers. Either that, or they’re all Benfica or Belenenses fans, so they’re leaving us alone.
This is definitely a place where I’d see Marco. For a moment I think about texting him, inviting him out. He wasn’t at the game. Didn’t wish me good luck either.
I decide against it. I’ve been drinking and that’s not usually a good combination. He used to make fun of me for not partying and drinking, though I’ve come around, certainly as I gain more confidence in my career, I don’t think he’d find it amusing to be here with me.
Teresa comes back and hands me a glass of a champagne and we slowly wind our way through the crowd back to the VIP area, when something on the dance floor catches my eye.
Or should I say, someone.
I swallow hard, staring at her dance.
It can’t be.
“Luciano?” Benedito asks.
I wave him away, unable to take my eyes off of her.
In the middle of the dance floor is a woman that looks so much like a ghost from my past, like Ruby Turner, that I can hardly believe it.
But I have no choice but to believe it.
She’s dancing alone, her eyes closed, moving her body to the music, on a different beat and a slower, more sensual tempo than everyone else around her. Her hair is a little shorter, a little straighter, and she’s maybe lost a few pounds. Not in her breasts though. Those look the same.
As does the red lipstick, now a shade of burgundy, like her lips have been dipped in wine.
She’s wearing jeans and a black top, both fit her like a glove, hugging all her curves, the dip of her waist, the wave of her hips. My hands tingle as if they remember what it was like to touch her.
I can’t fucking believe it.
I slowly start walking toward her, like I’m in a daze, paying no attention to the people dancing into me, the scent of sweat and alcohol. All I see is her.
Dancing alone.
I don’t know what to say.
I stop right in front of her and just stare, trying to think of words, blinking.
It’s really her.
I lick my lips. “Ruby?”
My voice comes out hoarse and too low to be heard above the music.
But her eyes flash open anyway.
Doe eyes.
Blue. So beautifully blue.
Ruby girl.
She stares at me for a beat, her eyes slowly widening as she takes me in.
Then she bursts into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, eclipsing all the neon lights around us.
“Luciano?!”
She throws herself
